


5 Times Mickey Has Seizures and 1 Time Ian Sees

by blackXroseXdying



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU: Mickey has seizures, M/M, calls Mickey a Spaz, iggy being a dick, little blood, little violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackXroseXdying/pseuds/blackXroseXdying
Summary: AU: Mickey has seizures.





	5 Times Mickey Has Seizures and 1 Time Ian Sees

**Author's Note:**

> So I was recently diagnosed with Epilepsy.  
> After a car accident where I hit my head and blacked out, I started having seizures. Doctors kept saying they were just stress related or that I was faking it.   
> Fours years and I don't know how many tests later, I finally have an answer.  
> So I guess this is just me projecting my own feelings about that.

     _Who knew that a bump on the head could cause so many problems? Years of not knowing when the next one would come, how long it would last for, how bad it would be. It didn’t take all that long to pick up on the signs – the headache, the nausea, the coppery blood taste in the back of my throat. All a clear indication of what was to come; giving me about a minute (sometimes less) to get somewhere safe, alone, where no one would see._

 

 

  1.   
Dad is drunk. Again. Angry. Again. About no one knows what. His words are jumbled and running together as too much to make a full sentence as he throws things around the room. Anything and everything he can get his on – plates, empty beer cans, a chair.  
He turns on me, face purple with rage, and takes a staggering forwards. His hands reach for me – probably to wrap around my eight year old neck – but they never reach me.  
     I’m pushed from the side by Iggy and fall at the abruptness. With no time grab hold of anything to stop myself, the side of my head collides harshly with the corner of the kitchen table.  
     The floor underneath me is cold and hard when I slowly wake up – I can feel my body trembling harshly. My eyes flutter open and closed as I try to stay conscious, try to move, but every part of my body scream in agony and I lie still until the jerky movement of my body slow down and eventually stop.  
     Holding back tears – from the pain in my bleeding head, and the rest of my body – and not really understanding what just happened, I crawl across the stained, dirty floor, back to bed and close my eyes.  
     The sun is setting when I wake up again, and I can already hear _him_ in the kitchen, swearing and yelling and slamming things around. I curl into a ball under the thing blanket, and pull the pillow over my still pounding head to block out the noise.  
     _What the hell was that?  
     Why couldn’t I move, or even open my eyes?  
     _ I’ve hit my head plenty of times and this never happened.



 

 

  1.   
I manage to avoid dad for a few days before he corners me again. He acting different this time – there’s dinner on the table, real food. Mac and cheese and sausage. And even more surprising, he cooked it, not Iggy. I’m dragged from my bed by my short black hair and shoved into a hard back chair at the table. Dad sits at the top of the table, the rest around him, like we’re a real family that has dinner together every night.  
Everyone talks and laughs and jokes, dad drinks four beers before he finishes eating, and I sit with my head down, pushing my food around with the bent fork, not able to force anything down.  
     My head still thumps where I hit it a few days earlier, my stomach rolls over and over itself, and there’s a strange taste in the back of my throat. It gets worse the longer I sit there.  
     “Eat, boy. I didn’t make this so you could be an ungrateful shit and just pick it to pieces. Eat!” Dad yells, slamming the beer car onto the table.  
     My small, pale hands start to shake and I clench them into fists, swallowing down the sick feeling that creeps up my throat.   
     “Feel sick.” I mumble, not looking up.  
     Dad huffs out a breath and I hear plates smash to floor. I stand to run, knowing what’s coming, but I close my eyes and I don’t feel my feet touch the floor.  
     I drag my eyes open sometime later to find myself dangling in the air.  
     Terry’s hands are tight and bruising around where they squeeze around my arms, shaking me roughly back and forth, yelling and spitting in my face.  
     “What the fuck are you doing? Stop that weak-ass shit! You’re a Milkovich! Stand and fight like one! Stop or I’ll make you stop.” He yells the same things over and over. They all jumble together and he sway as he shakes me.  
     After one particularly violent shake, he loses his balance and falls, dropping me – I land with a crack on my left arm and feel it snap. I scramble out of the way before dad lands in the space I just lay in; He’s passed out.  
     I don’t remember how the rest of the night goes, but hours later, the sun coming high through the window, I’m back in bed with a blue cast on my arm and the pillow over my head.



 

 

 

  1.   
It takes me months to learn when it’s going to happen. The funny taste – which I now know is blood – plus the head and the sick feeling in my stomach – all give me just enough time to hide. I still don’t know what happens when my body starts to shake and I fall into some kind of sleep, but I don’t remember anything between then and waking up. All I know is that my head and every muscles screams painfully for hours after, and no matter how hard I fight it, I sleep for a day.  
I’ve learned enough to hide it from Terry, from everyone. I’ve been caught a few times since that first time and now that I’m thirteen. No one can see how weak I am. _I’m a Milkovich._ I’m not supposed to have any weaknesses.   
     The house is empty for once and I sit on the lumpy couch watching a movie, drinking a beer and letting the cold can touch the red skin around the fresh tattooed letters on my knuckles – put there just a few days ago by one of the cousins. I don’t remember which one, or if it hurt. I was too drunk to pay attention, or care. But I needed _something._ Something rough to cover up that shaking ball of messy weakness I turn into four or five times a week.  
     The now familiar, annoying feeling starts to creep up on me and – even though no one else is home – I still feel the need to hide. I can feel my hands starting to shake, and my legs feel like jelly as I walk towards my bedroom at the back of the house.



     I hear laughter when I open my eyes and slowly stretch out my arms and legs. My face is buried in the carpet, and when I roll onto my back I suck in deep lungful’s of air before choking on them. I’d be more concerned if that was the first time it had happened - I usually seem to fall first.  
     The laughter starts up again, and I scrub a hand down my face, rub the heels of my palms into my eyes and walk into the kitchen.   
     Iggy is leaning against the sink with a smoke hanging out of mouth, a beer in one hand and a video camera (probably stolen) in the other. He presses a button on the device as I crack open a beer, and after a few second he starts laughing again. His eyes flick between me and the camera and he starts shaking his arms and legs in some kind of mock seizure.  
     “Look at you. Spaz. That’s your new name. _Spaz._ ” He starts laughing harder and I roll my eyes, snatching the camera from his hands.  
     It’s me.  
     Half on my side, half face down in the doorway to my bedroom. My whole body convulses violently, the muscles in my arms tighten and spasm visibly and there’s an odd noise coming from my throat, like…  
     “I’m choking!” I spit out. Iggy laughs and nods his head.  
     “Lighten up! You were spazing around like a….like a….like some kind of spaz!”  
     I roll my eyes at how lame he sounds, and toss the camera back, which he drops. I don’t even care if it’s broken. I snag the barely functioning laptop from the table and shove the dresser in front of my door so Iggy can’t come in.  
     It takes half an hour to get the thing to work properly and another hour to find information.  
     Fits. Seizures. Convulsions.  
     All searches lead me to two things; epilepsy and something called psuedoseizures. There’s no way to stop either, only lessen how bad they are.   
     Yoga. Meditation. Pills. Change of diet.  
     Nothing that’s easy to do unnoticed or that’s affordable.  
     I look at pictures and videos of the different yoga poses, committing a few to memory before closing everything, wiping the browser history, and returning the laptop to the table. Iggy is passed out on the couch.  
     I clear a space on my floor and run through the things I found on the internet before a familiar drowsiness crashes into my and drag myself back to bed.

 

 

 

  1.   
A year.  
A year of that stupid meditation and yoga crap and…those websites were right.  
     It did help. A little.  
     I still have them most days of the week, still don’t know why, but I don’t wake up feeling as bad as I used to – like I’d been hit by a truck.  
     I’ve gotten better at hiding it too.  
     The camera had broken when Iggy dropped it after filming me that day, so he never got to show anyone, and he was so drunk that he woke up with no memory of it, so he couldn’t tell anyone.  
     I’ve been lucky not to have any at school yet, and at home we pay even less attention to each other than when we were kids.  
     School.  
     It’s a joke.  
     I’m not learning anything that’s going to be of use stuck here on the Southside, so I ignore it all and spend half my day meditating while pretending to sleep in the back of the classroom.  
     The bell rings and I leave with everyone else, but instead of following the crowd to the next class, I walk outside to the bleachers.    
     _That_ feeling has been creeping up on me for the last ten minutes, and it gets worse with each quick step I take.  
     I can feel my heart racing. I don’t know if I’m going to make it under the bleachers in time. The PE class on the soccer field will see. People will see, will know how weak I am.  
     _Milkovich’s are not weak!_



     I made it.  
     Barely.  
     This one feels like the worst in a long time.   
     It’s harder to keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds, my head is too heavy to lift, and every muscle in my body screams when I try to move. I ignore all of that, grit my teeth, and drag myself to sit up against one of the support poles to light a smoke.  
     It’s almost burnt down to the filter when I’m able to open my eyes. It’s getting dark now. I’ve been out here for almost three hours.  
     _Had I spent that long having a seizure?  
     Or did I just fall asleep right after?_

     I know I should be more worried, but I’m too tired and scared to give a crap.  
     When I can move, I am never coming back here. That was too close. I can’t risk it again.  
     Never again.

 

 

 

  1.   
Back here.  
Again.  
     For that damn red head that has clawed his way under my skin.  
     Every day I find myself hoping that I’ll be called at visiting time. That I’ll see him on the other side of that glass. So close, yet I can’t touch him.  
     I’ve managed to keep my secret from him for so long now. At the Kash and Grab – when I don’t show up – they think it’s just me being a typical Milkovich. Some part of me doesn’t want Ian to think I’m _that_ person. But I can’t let him see that side. No one can.  
     _I’m a Milkovich. Milkovich’s don’t have weaknesses._



     My body decides differently.  
     At least I was lying down when it started.  
     The cot in my cell may be thin and uncomfortable, but it’s better than the ground.  
     “Milkovich!”  
     I stand as fast as my sluggish body will allow.  
     “You got a visitor.”  
     I follow the guard.  
     As girly as it sounds, my heart races as we walk, my feet dragging no matter how high I think I lift them. I scrub my hands over my face, hoping to wipe away some of the weariness that I know is there.  
     _He’s here._  
     That red hair on the other side of the glass, already reaching for the phone when he sees me. I keep my face blank and steps slow as I walk forwards, and eventually sit in front of him.  
     The phone is cold against my face.  
     “You look like crap, Mick.” The first words out of his mouth. He sounds sarcastic, but I can see the worry splash all over his face.  
     “Ay! Fuck you, Gallagher,” I say back, with none of my usual bite.  
     That smile of his breaks out across his face, and – like it’s contagious – I can’t help but smile back.

 

 

+1  
     Ian pushes open the front door to the Gallagher house, surprised to find all the lights on but the whole place silent and seemingly empty. He kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat on the hook by the front door, shaking snow from his hair. Not hearing a sound from downstairs, he goes upstairs.   
     After changing into a pair of sweats and an old worn shirt that belongs to Mickey, he goes back down into the kitchen to look for something to eat. He dials Mickey’s number as walks slowly down the stairs.  
     All thoughts are wiped from Ian’s mind when he reaches the bottom. He freezes for a moment at what he sees. Mickey – half on his side, half on his back – on the kitchen floor. Convulsing. Rapid, sharp movements that have Ian rushing to the dark haired boys’ side.  
     Kneeling next to his seizing boyfriend, Ian gently rolls Mickey onto his side and rips off his own shirt to fold underneath Mickey’s head so it won’t bang against the floor.  
     That’s when he notices the blood. On the edge of the counter, on the side of Mickey’s head and underneath him. Not enough to be dangerous, but enough to have fumbling and almost drop his phone as he calls for an ambulance.  
     He tries talking to Mickey, to get a response, but the there’s no change. It’s his eyes that scare Ian the most; lids fluttering, but the eyeballs rolled back into his skull so all Ian can see is white. Ian sits next to him on the floor, fingers grazing lightly over Mickey’s arm while he answers questions over the phone.  
    _Family history of epilepsy?  
_      It don’t think so.  
     _Has this happened before?  
     _ I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve seen it.  
     _How long has this one been going for?_  
     I don’t know. I got home five minutes ago and found him on the kitchen floor. But I didn’t find him right away.

     While Ian waits for the ambulance to arrive, he notices the tremors in Mickey’s body slowly start to subside and ever more slowly, his eyes flicker open.  
     Mickey’s half open eyes shift around the room and he groans when he see where he is, has registered what happened. He makes a move to sit up, but a firm hand (Ian’s hand, his brain supplies) holds him in place. Mickey tenses when he realises that his boyfriend has seen him like _this._ So weak and vulnerable. Ian was never meant to know about this.  
     “An ambulance is coming. You gotta stay still,” Ian says. Even without being able to see his face, Mickey can tell Ian is worried. Scared, even.  
     “No ‘amb’lance.” Mickey says, barely able to speak. This is the one thing he hates the most; not being able to form words properly. Sounding like a child. “Just. Bed.”  
     “What? No, Mickey. You had a seizure and _hit your head._ You have to…”  
     Ian’s interrupted by a knock on the door, and he hurries to let them in; leads them through the house to where Mickey is slowly pulling himself up to lean back against the cabinets. He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in days; his face is paler than usual, and there are deep purple bags under his eyes, which keep slipping closed – like he’s fighting to stay awake.  
     The paramedics ask Mickey a bunch of questions (Mickey answers as best he can and Ian translates when they don’t understand). When they ask _‘has this happened before’_ Ian isn’t expecting Mickey’s answer.  
     “Too many damn times,” he mumbles.  
     _When did they start?  
     _ “I think I was eight. I don’t remember a whole lot about them.”  
     Ian sits back, shocked, not understanding how he never noticed this was happening.  
     After checking Mickey over ( the cut on his head nothing serious), the paramedics recommend he see a specialist to get tests done, tell Mickey to rest and Ian to watch him, then they leave.  
     Ian is still staring at Mickey – totally dumbfounded – when the dark haired boy turns to him.  
     “What they fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey tried to sound annoyed, but it’s hard to sound vicious when his lips and tongue won’t form half the words. “Ian?”  
     “This has been going on for over ten years?” Why didn’t you tell me? _How did I not notice?”_  
Mickey interrupts him before he can ask any more questions.   
“I don’t even know what it is. They just happen.”  
     Mickey tells Ian about the few bad ones he remembers – the very first one with when Terry was going to strangle him and Iggy pushed him out of the way, to that time in juvie right before Ian came to see him. Ian remains silent the whole time.  
     “Ian? You gonna say something? Or least fuckin’ look at me?”  
     Ian’s eyes lift up from the floor and when they meet Mickey’s bright blue ones, they are filled with tears.  
     “What…” Mickey is cut off by the tall red read launching himself into Mickey’s arms, holing him tight.  
     “I’m so sorry Mickey,” he says. His voice cracks. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with that alone. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
     “Why the hell would I?” Mickey spits out. “So you could look at me the way you are now. Like I’m weak? Or broken? I don’t need that shit, man.”  
     Mickey tries to get to his feet, but his legs are still unsteady and he tips to the side. Ian catches him with and arm around his waist and pulls Mickey’s arm over his shoulders.  
     “Okay, tough guy. How about you finish that speech when you can actually stand up by yourself, huh? Let’s get to bed.”  
  
     It takes some times, but eventually Ian gets Mickey settled in bed, cleaned the small cut on his head, and holds a glass steady so Mickey can sip slowly at the water. Ian moves to get up, but Mickey grips the hem of his shirt so he can’t move. Ian sets the glass down on the small side table next to the bed. Mickey is lying on his side, eyes closed, face screwed up slightly as the pain in his head and muscles slowly decreases. Ian brushes his fingers through the dark hair.   
     “Stay,” Mickey says, voice soft.  
     Ian chuckles and shuffles around on the bed, moving to lie on his back. Mickey’s hand tightens on his shirt and he moves his head to rest on Ian’s shoulder. Ian can’t help but smile and let out a huff of laughter.  
     “You know, I kind of like you like this. A soft and cuddly. It’s a nice change from…”  
     Ian’s words are cut off by Mickey putting a hand over his mouth.  
     “Shut up. Sleep now.” The dark haired boys’ words are slurry with sleep.  
     Ian tightens his arms around his already sleeping boyfriend, and kisses the top of his head. As tired as he feels, he keeps himself awake, scared that if he falls asleep Mickey will have another seizure and he won’t know.  
     He settles against the pillows and keeps watch while Mickey sleeps in his arms.


End file.
